


Nine-Tenths of the Law

by cave_leporem



Category: Motorcycling RPF
Genre: Explicit Language, Humour, M/M, motorskink fill, now with bonus scene, second chapter is rated mature, yes it's that scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-09 19:58:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1995885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cave_leporem/pseuds/cave_leporem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Motorskink prompt: Motogp. Two drivers spent the night together. In the morning one of them has to be at a press conference and he's really in a hurry so he dons the other driver's tshirt without noticing that. Cue surprised/amused reactions from his team boss and random drivers he meets but no one says a thing until some journalist mention the fact during the press conference...</p><p>Now with bonus scene: one cocky man knocking on his team mate's door in the middle of the night...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the well-known (and one of my favourites) phrase: possession is nine-tenths of the law.
> 
> The language is mostly minor (common) cursing- as is with all my fics- but how do you tag that? Non-explicit swearing? Gently explicit language? So I went with ye olde faithful.
> 
> These scenes are fictional. No offence is meant to the people involved.
> 
> Enjoi.

Dani wakes up realising that it’s not his alarm sound going off, but the snooze jingle. Thus, Dani wakes up with a curse. His brain reminds him that the alarm was set for a reason, and if it’s the snooze button going off now, he is probably late for whatever said reason might be.  
  
All in all, this does not a beautiful morning make.  
  
Marc wakes up to the sound of positively _filthy_ Catalan being muttered in an undertone mere inches from his left ear.  
  
He then registers the electronic hum in the background, and somewhat understands his lover’s ire. Dani had mentioned the press conference last night… the one that began in- Marc checked the clock on the bedside table- twenty minutes? By this point, Dani has vacated the bed and is rushing around trying to find wherever they threw their clothes to last night. Success is currently 50-50- there are jeans and boxers and a Honda shirt, but Marc notices that the jeans are in fact his own, and will be too long for his shorter partner.  
  
He decides not to share this fact until Dani has tried them on and nearly tripped over the hem. With a growl, the older man finally finds his own trousers and dons them in short time.  
  
Dani had been so precious last night making sure the alarm was set and positioned so it was less likely to wake up Marc too. Apparently he succeeded too well, if it failed to wake himself up at all.   
  
All in all, Marc thinks, this has been a good morning. Except-  
  
“No time for a morning kiss?”  
  
Dani stops faffing around with the clothing to glare at him. “You’re finding this far too funny,” he accuses in a tone that doesn’t hide the fact that he doesn’t really mind.  
  
Marc shrugs and lounges back on the pillow. “It’s a reverse striptease,” he points out. “Any morning watching you half-naked is a morning well spent.”  
  
His lover groans at Marc’s wicked smirk and rubs his eyes. “I have fifteen minutes,” he points out. “Please don’t put ideas into my head.”  
  
Marc gasps, rather over-dramatically. “I would never-”  
  
Dani snorts and cuts him off. “This from the man who showed up at my motorhome with a bottle of lube, condoms, and a suggestion to get the awkward hero-fascination fuck out of the way early in the season?”  
  
Despite himself, Marc shivers. That night was possibly one of the best ideas of his _life._  
  
Dani smiles. “Me, too,” he says softly, before glancing at the clock. Then Marc is treated to another string of Catalan curses and his lover’s bare back as Dani hunts for the Honda shirt he managed to find five minutes ago. Finally victorious, he tugs it over his head and tries to rescue his hair in the shiny table surface reflection.   
  
“How do I look?” Dani asks. It’s half in jest, all in seriousness.  
  
Marc raises an eyebrow, and very obviously drags his eyes down his lover’s body and back up to meet his gaze.   
  
“I know,” Dani says, ducking back down by the bed, “Stupid question.” He presses a quick kiss to Marc’s forehead, but if he thinks Marc’s going to let him get away with that-  
  
Dani leaves the motorhome with five minutes to spare.  
  
Marc gets up and grabs the other Honda shirt from the floor. He shakes it out, just to be sure of what he thought he saw, and smirks.  
  
He then dons the shirt proudly emblazoned with number 26, and crawls back into bed.  
  
-*-

There are familiar faces everywhere (of course there are; racing is a smaller world than most) and on any day he wasn’t running incredibly late for a press conference, he would slow down and exchange pleasantries with the other riders and their crews as he made his way through the paddock.  
  
This day, however, he wouldn’t notice he’s at the Yamaha pits if it weren’t for Lorenzo meeting his gaze and bursting out laughing.   
  
Dani really hopes Jorge’s only laughing at the spectacle of him running like a demon’s chasing him. Otherwise, it suggests there is something wrong with his hurriedly gathered attire, and Dani can’t bear to think of what a moron he’s going to look like on camera if that’s the case.  
  
He finally gets to the conference room, and there is only time for rushed greetings and finding his place before the cameras start rolling.

  
-*-

  
Dani tries, he really does, but he can’t help but notice something- strange- about the whole conference. His manager keeps giving him sidelong looks, and those present from his crew (off-camera in the corner of the room) keep snickering amongst themselves.  
  
He can’t even begin to explain why not one reporter looks him in the eye when asking him a question.  
  
They’re giving _each other_ eye-contact aplenty, and he bemoans the fact that he can’t read lips in Spanish, let alone any other language, for all the sotto-voce muttering going on between them.  
  
Movement catches his eye. One reporter is slapping his compatriot on the back. Dani notices the badges; they are from the Spanish contingent. At least he won’t have to translate this answer.  
  
With much urging, this reporter marshals his words and finally, one of the pack meets his gaze as he asks his question.  
  
“Is your choice of attire a bold statement as to your until-now hypothetical relationship with your teammate, Marc Marquez?”  
  
The room goes silent.   
  
And Dani has absolutely no idea as to what prompted this question. He takes a sip of water, coughs it back out of his lungs when it goes down the wrong pipe, and manages to say, “Excuse me?” in a voice that sounds halfway normal.  
  
The reporter gestures at his shirt.   
  
_His shirt_.   
  
_Oh,_ Dani looks down with a sense of foreboding, _holy shit._  
  
His Honda-orange-and-white shirt that he didn’t look at any closer, because it should have been _his_ orange-and-white shirt, and why could he not recognise _his shirt_ when he was picking it up from the floor this morning!?  
  
Because the shirt on his back is not his shirt. It is _categorically not his shirt_. Dani has never ridden a motorbike with number 93 on the front of it.  
  
 _Holy shit._  
  
Like a dam bursting, every reporter is suddenly on their feet and screaming questions in an attempt to be heard over everybody else.  
  
Dani only hears this; he hasn’t yet looked up from his chest, where the number 93 is innocently winking back up at him.  
  
There’s a tiny part of his mind, a part beyond hysteria, which disagrees with this thought on the basis that _nothing_ to do with Marc Marquez is remotely innocent.  
  
(See memory: first night together, for evidence.)  
  
Dani starts laughing, and even years later his manager never tells him that for the first few seconds, it sounded like crying.  
  
“Right,” Dani whispers, more to himself than anybody else. Because he and Marc have talked about this; of course they had. The moment it became more than random fucking, they talked about this.  
  
Surprisingly enough, this exact scenario never actually came up in those discussions.  
  
He knows, _knows_ with the power of God behind him that Marc is laughing his little arse off about this back at the motorhome.  
  
But still. They both agreed that if the question was ever asked, they would be honest. So Dani raises his head and proudly, boldly, answered the man’s question.  
  
“Marc Marquez and I are in a relationship, yes. I must have grabbed the wrong shirt when I got ready this morning.”  
  
There are one, two seconds, where every person in the room puts together the case of the wrong shirt with the fact that he was nearly late for this press conference, and come up with _Front-Page-Headline-in-the-Making._

His manager puts his head in his hands.   
  
His crew are howling with laughter in their corner.  
  
Dani nearly goes blind with the number of cameras that suddenly flash at him.

  
-*-

  
Dani slams the door of the motorhome when he enters. The powered-on television is incriminating. He stalks over to the bed and glares at the lazy slug who hasn’t got up save to, apparently, watch his humiliation and compound his idiocy by donning the shirt he, Dani-Pedrosa-number-26, should have been wearing.  
  
“I,” Dani enunciates very carefully, “Am going to kill you.” He doesn’t know if Marc noticed the error before he left, but figures that the younger rider wouldn’t have told him regardless. Death threats are entirely warranted.  
  
Marc is fairly certain that the statement (threat) is hyperbole, so he grins. “But think how boring your life would then be,” he protests innocently (there is _nothing_ innocent about his grin, but he gives it the old college try anyway). “How could you bear the same routine of poles and top podiums every race if I wasn’t there to shake it up?”  
  
Dani stares evenly back at him. Marc thinks nothing of this until Dani suddenly grins back, and Marc has a moment to think, _oh fuck_ \- before he pounces.  
  
In the flurry of clothes being shed, Dani grabs Marc’s wrist just before he pulls the T-shirt over his head.  
  
“Leave it on,” he says.  
  
Marc blinks.  
  
Dani shrugs unapologetically.  
  
Marc gets it (like a high-side at 150mph). “You possessive bastard.” It’s definitely an endearment in this context.  
  
“It suits you,” is his only reply, before words become gasps and curses and Marc _somehow_ , in the middle of it all, manages to plot the next time they’re together like this, when Dani will be wearing lots of things bearing the number 93.  
  
Lying there in satiated afterglow, Marc grins.


	2. The Best Decision He's Ever Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marc turns up at Dani's motorhome with a bottle of lube, condoms, and a suggestion to get the awkward hero-fascination fuck out of the way early in the season.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is totally 994527's fault, for the record. I was convinced this wouldn't be written until they sparked an idea in a comment.
> 
> Mature rating for this chapter. 
> 
> Enjoi.

Dani’s in bed, asleep, when somebody knocks on his door. He groans as he wakes, debating whether to get up or not. This late at night, it had to be important.

It had better be important.

He glances down, and considers answering the knock in just his boxer shorts. Whoever it is would deserve it. But there’s an old hoodie lying on the sofa, and more because he knows he’d be mortified when he remembered tomorrow morning than any kind of sympathy for his caller, he pulls it over his head.

It looks bloody stupid, but he doesn’t care. It’s late. He’s being roused out of bed for what better be a damn good reason, and he’s going to be as grumpy and odd as he likes about it.

Marc is the last person he is expecting when he pulls the door open. His automatic glare drops with the surprise.

They stare at each other, Marc taking in Dani’s choice of attire, and seemingly losing any explanation for why he’s turned up on his team mate’s doorstep at dark o’clock in the morning. So Dani takes the initiative.

“Do you know what time it is?”

Marc jumps like a startled rabbit and drags his eyes back to Dani’s face. The younger man checks his watch, because of course he is still fully dressed when he pays a late night visit to Dani’s motorhome.

Dani’s clearly still half-asleep, because his mind laments this fact even as he tries to convince himself that sarcasm can’t also be a euphemism.

“It’s twelve-seven-”

“Why are you here?” Dani grumbles, cutting the literal little shit off mid-sentence. “I was _sleeping_. That beautiful thing us old folk have to indulge in nightly, lest we terrorise our young, rookie team mates into an early grave the next day.”

“You’re not that old!” Marc protests. “And you’ve never terrorised me. Which brings me round to the answer to your question.” Marc shifts his weight from foot to foot, nervously glancing down Dani’s body again.

“Eyes here,” Dani says, pointing at his face. “You woke me up. You don’t get to complain about my state of undress. Hell, you’re lucky I put on the hoodie.”

Marc’s eyes dilate, and Dani’s half-asleep, _gutter_ mind pipes up that Marc doesn’t look like he’s complaining at _all_.

“Not complaining!” The younger man _agrees_ with him, and this is not helping Dani’s mind wake up.

Marc grins dirtily, seeming to find the confident reason he must have had to knock on Dani's door in the middle of the night. “Quite the opposite, in fact. I’m disappointed, _Dani_.”

Marc’s voice caressing the two syllables of Dani’s name wakes him up like a bucket of cold water. _What?_ He thinks.

“You what?” _Smooth as ten-year old tarmac, Pedrosa._

“So,” Marc begins in a conversational tone, like he hasn’t just blown Dani’s mind with one carefully placed inference. “You know I grew up a fan of yours, right? I was all prepared to be let down when you proved that in real life, on a day to day basis, you were a complete and utter dick. But we’ve been team mates for a couple of months now, and I’m still waiting for that proof. You haven’t terrorised me once. You haven’t called me a demon child or any of the other nicknames the rest of the paddock thinks they’re cleverly hiding. You were genuinely happy for me on my first win at Austin.” He shrugs, completely unselfconscious under Dani’s incredulous stare. “Basically, I grew up hero-worshipping you, and now we’re team mates, well.” His gaze roves over Dani’s body (hidden as it is by the suddenly _terrible_ decision Dani made to protect his delicate sensibilities), and his smirk is as filthy as the places Dani’s mind is gleefully inhabiting. “It makes good sense to get the awkward hero-fascination fuck out of the way early in the season, right?”

Dani’s mind breaks. He thinks it might be audible until he realises that’s the sound of his blood pumping in his ears.

Marc lifts one shoulder, drawing attention to the small rucksack Dani hadn’t noticed until now. “I even brought supplies,” he adds, dangling the implication in Dani’s face like a chocolate just out of a child’s reach. “Didn’t want to assume, and all.”

His team mate is assuming much, and by his grin, he knows it.

Dani gives in to every impulse his body is screaming at him to indulge: he grabs the front of Marc’s t-shirt, pulls the younger man in, and kisses that grin off his smug, _smug_ face. Marc kicks the door shut after being dragged bodily over the threshold.

“You woke me up,” Dani reminds him, biting at Marc’s earlobe. “Better make it worth the while, now.”

The bag falls to the floor as Marc puts two hands on the _derrière_ he’s been admiring for _years_ now, and squeezes. He sucks a livid bruise into Dani’s pulse point, sending shivers down his spine. “I will,” he murmurs as he pulls back, cocky and utterly irresistible.

With Dani’s help, he gets the hoodie off and stares raptly at the sight revealed to him. He blushes when Dani raises an inquiring eyebrow.

“Feel as smug as you like,” Marc can’t help but say, “I’m not convinced I’m not dreaming.”

His breath catches as Dani kneels down in front of him. “Have I ever helped you undress in your dreams?” He asks idly because he thinks he can work out this answer.

Marc swallows. “Yes.”

Dani unlaces his shoes and takes them off with his socks, one by one. He then runs his hands up Marc’s clothed legs, bypassing the growing bulge at their junction and playing with the hem of Marc’s shirt. “Have I ever ordered you to take off your top?”

Marc shuts his eyes. “Once or twice,” he gasps out.

Dani smiles wickedly. “Take off your top, Marc,” he orders his team mate, “And open your eyes. You’ll want to see this.”

Marc’s eyes are _wide_ open. He strips off the shirt like it’s burning his back, and stares dazedly down at the older man staring _wickedly_ up at him.

“Your watch, next,” Dani suggests. “I’d hate to have the clasp catch in my hair.”

He only hears a thud as the piece of jewellery lands somewhere out of sight.

Marc’s voice trembles. “Dani, what are you-”

Dani sits back on his heels, because he doesn’t like that tone. “Marc, stop me if you don’t want this.” He’s suddenly horrified by the thought that he’s taking advantage of Marc, that Marc thought he wanted something but is finding the reality far different. “Marc, you’ll need to stop me if I do something you don’t like. Okay?”

Marc shakes his head immediately, and Dani feels ice form in his veins. “God Marc, I’m so-” He backs away hurriedly, hoping he hasn’t irreparably damaged the growing friendship between them.

“No- Dani, _get back here_ ,” Marc says hoarsely. “Shaky voice is good. Shaky voice is fucking _awesome_ , and don’t you _dare_ stop now. You still need to make me believe I’m awake.”

Pure relief cascades through Dani’s nervous system. “Thank _God_ ,” he mutters, crawling forwards again and resting his forehead against Marc’s hip.

Then he nuzzles, and Marc’s hands fly to his head, twisting in his hair. “Dani-” Marc says, and the tremble makes him grin, this time.

“Have I ever peeled your trousers down, _torturously_ slow, and made everything better by giving you the blow job of your life?”

But they’re on more equal footing now, in terms of breathlessness, and Marc manages to get some of his own back. “I’m not wearing anything under these jeans.”

Dani’s mind stalls. Then- “ _Fuck_ slow.”

“No,” and Marc’s voice has that cocky, self-assured confidence he turned up at Dani’s motorhome with at twelve-seventeen in the morning. “Fuck _me_.”

Opening that door was the _best_ decision Dani’s ever made.


End file.
